


To kill you with a Hiss

by StolenMidnightKisses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Crack, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Gay Harry Potter, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Parseltongue, Parseltongue Kink, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 16:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19406656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StolenMidnightKisses/pseuds/StolenMidnightKisses
Summary: The first time Harry hears Voldemort speak Parseltongue he's 12 and running to save Ginny. He doesn't expect the things he hears.The second time he hears Voldemort speaking Parseltongue he's 14, and really, the things Voldemort were saying were definitely not appropriate for a graveyard.In which Voldemort uses Parseltongue for dirty talk and doesn't realise that Harry can understand what he's saying. And when he does find out, things go a little different than expected.





	To kill you with a Hiss

**Author's Note:**

> This little thing was translated into Vietnamese by the lovely Jellyfish (DandelionAdrian) at https://archiveofourown.org/works/19728649  
> Thanks so much!

The first time Harry heard Voldemort speak in Parseltongue was in Second year.

Harry had just run across towards Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets, more frightened for her life than looking around and checking whether there was anyone else there, which, in retrospect, he acknowledged was a stupid thing to do, but cut him some slack, he was _twelve_ at the time for Merlin’s sake, it was a wonder he even came out alive.

But anyway, Harry was digressing.

The first time he had heard Voldemort speak Parseltongue was when he was leaning over Ginny and shaking her, desperate for her to wake up when he heard Riddle say, “She won’t wake up.” That wasn’t the surprising thing, no, it was his next sentence, murmured under his breath, with the hissy undertone that Harry had learnt to listen out for to differentiate Parseltongue from English. Riddle had said:

_$Damn of course the Chosen One had to be hot$._

And then Riddle had continued, smooth as can be, as if he’d just said nothing at all, as Harry had reeled in shock, thinking _what the actual fuck._

And then, of course, Riddle had sicced a 60-foot Basilisk on him and if that wasn’t a massive turn off, he didn’t know what was.

And 12-year-old Harry had more important things to think about than the fact that Riddle found him _hot_. Such as running away from said snake, trying not to die, saving Ginny Weasley and killing a teenage version of Lord Voldemort (which, Harry would be the first to admit, was quite a massive improval to the thing stamped onto the back of Quirrell’s head. Merlin, what had Riddle been thinking to change his face to that?). All in a day’s work for the chosen one, huh?

And Harry had almost forgotten those words in the aftermath of the event, except when he sometimes woke up, flushed, the words clinging to his skin.

***

The second time Harry heard Voldemort speaking Parseltongue was in a decidedly inappropriate setting for what was being said. Namely, standing on top of Voldemort’s fathers' grave. Rather romantic, no?

Voldemort had just arisen from the cauldron like some monster belonging in a muggle horror movie, equipped with the eerie glow from the half moon, the darkness and the billowing smoke.

But that wasn’t what Harry was focusing on.

It was how naked Voldemort was. Because he was. Very, very naked.

Harry didn’t know why he’d been surprised at that, surely, he hadn’t expected Voldemort to emerge with a new body equipped with a robe? He needed to brush up on his potion’s knowledge.

But nevertheless, Voldemort had been naked and sue him, Harry was a teenage boy and was interested in _nakedness_ no matter who it was.

No actually, he drew the line at Wormtail. And Snape. And, Merlin forbid, Dumbledore. But Harry could definitely appreciate how fit Voldemort was. For a 70-or-something year old man, Voldemort was looking great. If you could get past his general snake-like skin and the fact _he had no nose_ (Harry wondered if that made kissing easier?).

And then Voldemort was asking Wormtail for a robe, _thank Merlin_ because now was not the time to be distracted, in a soft, sibilant voice while staring at Harry all the time as if he wanted to fuck him right there and then. Or kill him. Or both. Did the expressions for the two have to be so similar because Harry was getting real mixed signals there.

And then Voldemort had, damn him to hell, murmured $ _You look absolutely ravishing_ $, and Harry had almost stopped breathing, forgetting to pretend he couldn’t speak Parseltongue for a moment $ _Shame I’ll have to kill you though, you’d look wonderful sprawled on my throne_ $.

And wasn’t that an image.

Harry could imagine it: Him, arranged artfully naked on Voldemort's dark throne, and Voldemort strolling in through tall doors, not seeing him for a second and then eyes widening in surprise before narrowing in obvious lust and amusement. Those red eyes focused on him alone. And then he would walk up to Harry, gait powerful and sensuous. And when he reached Harry he would-

No Harry, now wasn’t the time. He had to concentrate damnit! Listen to what Voldemort was saying; something about finally touching him-

Harry screamed as Voldemort caressed his scar, his pain almost unbearable, but Voldemort was whispering to him under the screams $ _The things I’d do to you Harry, I’d plunder you and claim you and defile you, I’d make you scream as you do now, but for an entirely different reason. Oh, the sounds you would make_ $.

And Harry couldn’t help it, despite the pain, despite _everything_ , Harry _moaned._

Voldemort stopped and the graveyard was silent, only filled with Harry’s panting breaths, half from pain, half from arousal. He wanted to hit himself for giving it away but then he thought, in for a penny, in for a pound.

Harry grinned slightly, cocking his head up to meet Voldemort’s red, narrowed gaze and said $ _All I hear are empty promises. Prove it_ $.

And then, using Voldemort’s utter shock (and wasn’t that an expression for the Daily Prophet? They'd have a field day) against him, he twisted out of his arms- and Merlin, they were nice arms, made for pinning people down and debauching them- and ran towards Cedric and the cup, grabbing them both and whisking away to Hogwarts.

But before he did, he caught one last sight of Voldemort’s delighted and amused eyes. Voldemort looked like a predator suddenly realising his prey was much worthier than he’d realised.

And when he reached Hogwarts’ soil, he couldn’t hear the screams from students and parents alike but Voldemort’s dark and whispered promise, as shark-like and dangerous as the man himself:

$ _I’m a Dark Lord Harry, and I never, never go back on my promises. Run Harry, run, while you can for there is nowhere to hide_ $.

Harry felt as if he was standing on a knifes edge, where a wrong breath would send him tumbling down to his death. And yet Harry couldn’t _wait._

He couldn’t help but think that their next meeting would be much, much more enjoyable.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little thing that I thought of before bed and didn't let me go before I'd written it. I find that most of the times I write fanfiction is when I'm supposed to be sleeping. Does anyone else find this?  
> Hope you enjoyed!


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